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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29446995">Nothing I Do (better than revenge)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/IMaketheMonsters/pseuds/IMaketheMonsters'>IMaketheMonsters</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>(you could say) Sabotage [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Julie and The Phantoms (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Jukebox, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Reggie Peters is a puppy, Revenge is Sweet, Valentine's Day, no beta we die like men, willex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:15:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,776</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29446995</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/IMaketheMonsters/pseuds/IMaketheMonsters</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Even cynics fall in love.</p><p>OR: The Anti-Valentine's Day Romantic Comedy!AU that no one asked for</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Julie Molina/Luke Patterson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>(you could say) Sabotage [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2171184</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>278</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Nothing I Do (better than revenge)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This whole thing was inspired by my vague recollection of that one scene in Looking For Alaska where they slam a fish down in a car.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Julie Molina isn’t basic. She may not be a self-righteous social justice warrior, hell bent on changing the universe with the power of nasty Facebook comments, or a “head cheerleader by day, pop princess by night” queen bee sugar plum fairy with a smile that bleeds arsenic, but that doesn’t mean she’s got the flavour profile of a saltine cracker. Julie’s wardrobe might be free of sequins and leather miniskirts, but at least she isn’t the walking definition of an American Teen Stereotype.</p><p>She wishes she had thought to say that before she ran out of the cafeteria ten minutes ago, drenched from head to toe in Strawberry Crème Frappuccino, but she was a bit preoccupied with trying not to burst into tears in front of the majority of the student body.</p><p>Hindsight is 20/20 and all that.</p><p>As it is, her hair has been rinsed out in the bathroom sink, along with Nick’s red and white (and now pink) varsity letterman’s jacket and her own soggy, syrup-stained socks. The only remaining evidence of Carrie Wilson’s latest and most lethal attack yet is her mom’s old white Ramones t-shirt, which is also stained beyond recognition, and her eyes, red rimmed and watery as she watches them reflected back to her in the mirror.</p><p>She’s still kind of reeling, honestly. In the last half hour, her entire worldview has been upended on its side, her meticulously planned day-to-day routine scrambled in a heap and discarded on the cafeteria floor.</p><p>“Hey Julie—oh my god, what happened to you?” A gaggle of underclassmen (sophomores, she notes hazily) piles into the girls bathroom on the second floor. “Are you okay?” One of them, a petite strawberry blonde (Julie vaguely recognizes her as a volunteer from the Winter Showcase last semester) reaches out as if to pat her shoulder, but then seems to catch the crazed look in her eyes and draws her hand back at the last second.</p><p>She could break down right here. She could spend the last twenty five minutes of her lunch break bitching about Carrie Wilson. She could dissolve into tears over the complete social catastrophe that is to be the rest of her senior year, especially considering her (now-ex) boyfriend has all but admitted to sleeping with the she-devil incarnate for the majority of their two year relationship.</p><p>But there are few things more humiliating than being found spilling her heart out to a group of literal tweens while dressed like the mascot for Pepto Bismol.</p><p>“I’m fine, thanks,” Julie mutters, gathering up her sticky (and now wet) belongings into her arms and rushing headlong out the door. She pushes past the scattered bodies blocking the path by the main bank of lockers, skittering down the basement stairs to the only safe place she can think of.</p><p>The Los Feliz music program is renowned for its state-of-the-art auditorium and advanced repertoire. It’s one of the things Julie loves best about this school— they have unlimited access to the latest tech, the best instructors, and the widest selection of sheet music without ever having to worry about licensing. But she remembers a time when the music program was just a blip on the school board’s radar, just another one of the obscure art programs that could have their funding cut to bolster the budget for the lacrosse team’s new equipment, or the cheerleaders’ expansive collection of uniforms. Of course, that was before Carrie got her dad to step in and sponsor the music program (not without a generous tip under the table for the administration), funneling in millions of dollars over the years and moving the program from its residence in the basement to the ground floor.</p><p>But before Carrie’s daddy won his first Grammy, Carrie was just another mean girl. And whenever Carrie was in a particularly bad mood (usually, it was because somebody had beaten her out for a solo spot in the seasonal showcase, and usually, that somebody was Julie), Julie would seek refuge in the safety of the old practice room, a quiet place equally battered and dark with the perfect amount of shoddy soundproofing to guarantee that nobody would hear her cry.</p><p>She slams the door open as she enters, heading straight for the far corner and dumping her clothes and sticky backpack in a limp pile on the thin carpet. The room is just as she remembered: the air is musty and stale, and the only source of light is the cold February glare that filters in through the single window. The upright piano in the centre of the room creaks as she approaches, lifting the lid to caress the familiar keys before plopping down onto the worn wooden bench and dropping her face into her hands.</p><p>“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she whispers tightly, clenching her fists to her throat as the torrent of hot, angry tears spills over. “You’re so stupid, Molina, no wonder everyone thinks you’re fucking crazy.”</p><p>“We’re all a little crazy,” comes the voice from the far wall.</p><p>Julie screams, nearly tumbling off the piano bench. Her fists come down on the keys in an effort to regain her balance, and the discordant groan rings harshly against the pitch of her shout.</p><p>“Jesus <em>fuck</em>, dude, way to give someone a heart attack,” she gasps, clutching at her chest and peering into the darkness.</p><p>She’s surprised to see that the boy partially obscured by the shadows is none other than Luke Patterson, a fellow senior, lead guitarist and frontman of viral sensation Sunset Curve and a rock legend in his own right. His signature worn leather jacket is draped over the open guitar case to his left and he’s twirling what looks like a ballpoint pen between his fingers.</p><p>“You’re the one who barged in here,” is his calm reply, messy brown hair spread in a wild halo around his face as he rests his head lazily against the wall behind him. “For all you know, you could’ve given <em>me</em> a heart attack.”</p><p>“I—yeah, sorry,” she’s too drained to argue that he should’ve made a sound if he wanted her to know he was there. She slumps back miserably against the piano. “It’s been a long day.”</p><p>Luke raises an eyebrow appraisingly. “I can see that. You want to explain…” he gestures vaguely between her and the pile of pink gunk in the corner.</p><p>“You mean the fact that I look like a drowned Easter bunny?” she clarifies sardonically, but her chuckle comes out as little more than a hysterical wail. Luke just shrugs. She heaves out a long breath, tipping forward on the bench to gather her damp curls in front of her into some semblance of a ponytail. “Carrie Wilson decided she didn’t feel like sharing our mutual boyfriend for Valentine’s Day, so she dumped her venti Frappuccino over my head in the middle of the cafeteria and tacked up a poster-sized screenshot of Nick texting her that she’s better in bed than I am.”</p><p>Luke whistles lowly. “Fuck, dude.”</p><p>“Yep,” she pops the consonant between her lips as she secures the scrunchie, flipping her hair back up again and spinning round to face him.</p><p>“I always knew Danforth-Evans was a slimy bastard,” he mutters under his breath.</p><p>She just gives him a watery smile. “You and the rest of the school. There have been rumours about them for months, but I always gave him the benefit of the doubt. My own fault, I guess.”</p><p>“That doesn’t make you crazy.”</p><p>“No, it doesn’t. But it makes me naïve,” she tells him softly.</p><p>He doesn’t seem to know what to say to that. The tension settles uncomfortably on her shoulders, and she clears her throat before speaking up again. “So how come you’re down here by yourself?”</p><p>“My bandmates don’t go here.”</p><p>She rolls her eyes. “Well I know <em>that</em>, but don’t you hang out with anyone else?”</p><p>“Nope.” He’s flipping through the pages of his notebook now, and the occasional scratch of his pen against the paper is the only noise to fill the awkward silence.</p><p>Luke Patterson has always been somewhat of an enigma, choosing to disappear in between classes and skipping every school function with calculated evasion. It’s always frustrated her that she’s known him since freshman year and she barely knows anything about him. He’s in her first period Bio class, for fuck’s sake, and she doesn’t even have a sense of whether or not he’s the type to understand the material.</p><p>There’s a million things she wants to know. She could ask to see what he’s writing, or if he’s planning on performing at the showcase at the end of the year. She could ask if he’s only down here because the cheerleaders have been trying to add themselves to his body count since his album topped the Billboard 100 last year. She could ask if he’s single, because Flynn has been pestering her about it since the day she found out a member of Sunset Curve goes to the same school as she does.</p><p>He beats her to it before she can settle on something more appropriate than, <em>hey, my best friend thinks you’re hot and wants me to ask if anyone in your band will date her.</em></p><p>“You’re not with your friends, either.”</p><p>It’s more of a statement than a question, but she answers anyway, “I mostly hang out with Nick’s buddies and some of the girls on the cheer squad. And since Carrie’s… y’know…”</p><p>“Psycho?” he supplies helpfully.</p><p>She snickers. “I was going to say <em>in charge</em>. I don’t really talk to anyone else here, and all my friends live out of state. We all grew up together at this summer camp so I don’t see them often.”</p><p>He hums in response, a rich, thick note that shimmers like velvet in the low light.</p><p>Something in her chest twists. She drops her gaze to her lap, twisting at the hem of her mostly dry shirt. It’s gotten to the point where’s it’s crustier than it is sticky, and she honestly isn’t sure which feeling makes her skin want to crawl more. “At least I found before Valentine’s day and not the day of,” she muses, pulling her train of thought back to the present.</p><p>Luke scoffs. “It’s Valentine’s day. Who cares?”</p><p>“I do,” she snaps back, and this time she can’t stop the few tears that trace their way down her face to drip off the end of her chin. “What’s so bad about a holiday that’s dedicated to spending time with the people you love?”</p><p>“The fact that it’s not about love,” he shrugs, although his forehead creases infinitesimally at the wobble in her voice. “Valentine’s day is literally a commercial holiday designed to guilt people into buying expensive shit for people they don’t even care about.”</p><p>“That’s not always true,” she protests.</p><p>He just stares at her. “My cousin used to work at the Tiffany’s downtown, and she told me their busiest day of the year was the day <em>after</em> Valentine’s day, because a bunch of guys would forget and have to propose to their girlfriends so they’d stop being mad.”</p><p>“Just because corporate organizations take advantage of holidays doesn’t mean the holiday as a whole is corrupt.”</p><p>“No, but it means the people that buy into it are suckers and care more about the idea of a special holiday than giving a shit about their partners.” For someone who stakes his reputation on not giving a shit, his tone is getting more and more heated with every volley.</p><p>For her part, Julie can’t believe someone can be so passionate about disproving the most romantic holiday of all time. “What about people who are genuinely in love and just wait for Valentine’s day to propose? You can’t tell me Valentine’s day proposals aren’t adorable.”</p><p>“The idea of diamond engagement rings was an advertising scam made up by De Beers in the ‘40s to boost sales from a mine of useless shiny rocks during the Great Depression,” he answers flatly.</p><p>She blinks. “You’re a cynic.”</p><p>“I’m a realist.”</p><p>“You don’t believe in love, do you?”</p><p>His grey eyes flash sharply in the darkness. “After today, do you?”</p><p>She hesitates, and the stunned silence that bridges the gap is answer enough for the both of them.</p><p>Luke softens slightly, the corner of his mouth quirking up into what is almost an apologetic expression. “Look, I didn’t mean it that way. I just think that you shouldn’t beat yourself up over a holiday that doesn’t signify anything important, anyway. You’re too good for that.”</p><p>“Thanks.” She doesn’t know which surprises her more, the smile or the compliment. Luke Patterson may be a dynamo on stage, but he’s famous for being stone cold and indifferent outside of the protective circle of his bandmates.</p><p>The shrill ring of the warning bell cuts through the tentative peace before either of them can say anything else. She groans, rising reluctantly from the bench and trudging over the unfortunate mess that make up her belongings.</p><p>“You gonna bring all that stuff with you to class?” She can hear the mechanical purr of a zipper as Luke secures his guitar back into its case behind her.</p><p>“No,” she sighs, kneeling down to stuff the now-crispy pile of clothes into the (mercifully dry) main compartment of her backpack, “I’m going to go drop this off in my locker first.” She swings her bag over her shoulder and trudges towards the open door, where Luke is already waiting for her, his face fully illuminated in the fluorescent glow of the hallway fixtures.</p><p>Her sharp inhale hitches in her chest for a split second before she remembers how to breathe.</p><p>“You have a change of clothes?” He’s staring down at her crunchy shirt with a small frown. Despite having never seen him laugh in person, she can’t help thinking that it doesn’t suit him.</p><p>“I dropped PE the second it stopped being a course requirement,” she reminds him resignedly, plucking at the hem of her shirt again as they step out into the hall. The metallic slam of the practice room door echoes hollowly against the concrete walls. “So I’m going to go to class looking like the Pink Panther had a love child with Mommy Shark, and if anybody laughs at me I’m going to cry violently until they get uncomfortable and walk away.”</p><p>The frown has twisted into an unamused scowl, so she leans forward and nudges him lightly, trying to ignore the spark the travels up the tips of her fingers as she makes contact with his side. “I’ll be fine, Luke. It’s high school. How bad could it be?”</p><p>His only answer is to drop his leather jacket into her outstretched hands before he walks away.</p>
<hr/><p>For the first time in her life, Julie is cursing her carefully crafted habit of being early for class. It paid off when she was trying to convince Mrs. Harrison to give her an extension on her composition theory paper last semester, for sure. But getting to first period early this morning means that she’s now forced to sit through an extra fifteen minutes of the wide eyes and snickering that’s being pointed tactlessly in her direction.</p><p>She’s chosen not to sit at her usual desk today. There’s no way in hell she’s going to subject herself to the pitying and somewhat accusatory glances from the rest of the cheer squad – especially not when the Head Bitch herself usually chooses the seat directly across from her.</p><p>Instead, Julie’s huddled in the back corner, at one of the two desks usually reserved for the lone wolf himself, Luke Patterson. She’s not wearing his jacket today, not after the loud gasps that echoed around the room from the pod of Sunset Curve groupies that usually flock together in her fourth period Music History class. She’d caught him in the parking lot after school instead, shoving the jacket into his arms with a muttered thanks before sprinting to catch the bus home.</p><p>She tries not to think about the fact that she’d had to buy a bus ticket for the first time in two years.</p><p>At the very least, she’s happy she’s clean today. She’d taken a long, scalding shower when she got home (one that had her little brother pounding on the bathroom door, complaining loudly about her waste of hot water), and thrown every crusty item that had fallen victim to the Great Strawberry-ing into the wash.</p><p>That is, everything except for Nick’s stupid jacket.</p><p>As if on cue, Nick materializes in the doorway on the opposite side of the room. The whispering stops abruptly, onlookers watching with bated breath as he weaves his way through the rows of desks towards her.</p><p>“Hey, JJ,” he greets her nervously, blue eyes shifting quickly between her eyes and her forehead as if afraid to look directly at her.</p><p>“Don’t call me that,” she responds coolly, lounging back in her chair to cross her arms over her chest. The raging pyre of indignation burning in her gut has died down overnight. For the first time in years, she finds herself staring at Nick Danforth-Evans’ blond head and feels absolutely nothing. “What do you want?”</p><p>He taps his fingers awkwardly on her desk. She wants to rip them off.</p><p>“I’m sorry I didn’t call you yesterday.”</p><p>She barks out an incredulous laugh. He flinches away from the sudden sound. “Why the fuck would you? It’s not the first time you conveniently forgot how to communicate.”</p><p>He winces slightly, looking for all the world like a contrite puppy and somehow still maintaining the nerve to act like a victim under the force of her glare. She wants to slap the apologetic grimace off his face.</p><p>“I just came here to tell you that you should keep the jacket.”</p><p>She actually slams her hands down onto the desk as she raises herself to her feet, snickering inwardly as the captain of the varsity lacrosse team cowers away from her tiny frame. She reaches into her bag and pulls out the offending garment.</p><p>“I’d rather eat my own eyeballs,” she growls, whipping it at his face with all her might. He just barely manages to catch it in both hands before his mouth twists and he recoils in disgust. She doesn’t blame him. She left it exactly the way it was last night: crusty, pink, and smelling slightly rancid at the collar.</p><p>Nick has the audacity to sigh, softening his voice into the overly-patient tone people usually reserve for toddlers and very elderly people. “Julie, we both know you get cold because they turn the AC up way too high in all your classes. Just keep the jacket, I’ll drive you home today and we can talk about this, okay?”</p><p>It takes her a moment to realize he’s being serious. “I’ll drag the bus behind me on my own two legs before I get in a car with you,” she hisses. “And we’re not talking about anything ever again. We’re done.”</p><p>Somebody in the back of the room coughs out an, “Oooooo,” and Nick’s eyes darken. A tiny seed of regret plants itself in her stomach—Nick is usually very even tempered so long as his pride isn’t bruised—and takes root as he snatches her wrist from her side, pulling her roughly towards him and nearly toppling her over the surface of the desk between them.</p><p>“Get the fuck away from me,” she grinds out, cursing the quiver in her voice as he tightens his grip around her pulse.</p><p>“I don’t know, you feel a little cold to me,” he taunts, grinning victoriously at the deafening silence that has settled around the room. She muffles the squeak of pain as he squeezes harder.</p><p>“Are you guys done making out yet, or can I sit down?” a bored voice breaks through the pounding in her ears, startling Nick so much he lets go of her wrist. She reels it back into her chest protectively, her gaze snapping to the source of the question.</p><p>By some godly miracle, Luke has materialized beside her, his apathetic expression betrayed only by the blazing storm in his narrowed eyes. Across the room, their teacher fumbles through the doorway, shuffling a stack of papers in his hands.</p><p>“I was just telling Julie she should wear my jacket since she’s so cold,” Nick laughs with forced casualness, his eyes trained on Mr. Byman, who is watching them suspiciously from his desk.</p><p>A heavy weight drops itself around her shoulders, and Julie looks up in surprise as the smell of leather and something musty (motor oil?) assaults her senses. She pushes her arms through the sleeves, basking in the residual warmth from the extra layer that soaks away some of the chill from her bones.</p><p>Luke, now in nothing but dark jeans and a sleeveless shirt, shoots her another half smile that sends her heart tumbling in her chest. He nods slightly at Nick (and if she didn’t know better, she’d swear he was smirking). “Problem solved.”</p><p>Her ex boyfriend grits his teeth, baring them in a tight smile. “Great.”</p><p>“If you boys want to make your way to your appropriate classrooms,” Mr. Byman cuts in loudly from his desk, “I believe class is about to begin.” Julie and Luke slump quickly into their seats. He raises his eyebrow pointedly at Nick, who curses under his breath, snatching up his jacket and shuffling hastily out of the room.</p><p>He pushes past Carrie in the doorway, barely acknowledging her, “Hey, babe!” as she reaches out to touch his shoulder. Her eyes snap to Julie’s with a chilling stare just as the bell rings, and Julie breathes a sigh of relief as Carrie turns away to settle in her seat with a flip of her auburn hair.</p><p>“Thanks,” she murmurs softly out of the side of her mouth, keeping her eyes trained on Mr. Byman as he starts the day’s lecture. She can see him shrugging in her periphery, shaking his knee up and down under the desk in time to the drumming of his fingers against his thigh.</p><p>They sit in companionable silence as Mr. Byman drones on, and Julie is surprised to see that Luke is actually taking detailed notes in the margins of his black notebook, his eyes flitting from the board at the front of the room to her colour-coded gel pens with an amused twitch of the lips.</p><p>She’s never wanted to see someone smile as badly as she wants to see his.</p><p>The rest of class passes by without incident, the bell ringing shrilly through the intercom speakers as Mr. Byman draws the lesson to a close.</p><p>Luke leans forward, his broad shoulder pressing briefly against hers as he brings his lips to her ear. “Keep the jacket today.”</p><p>She nearly drops her pen, whipping her head to the side so quickly she’s afraid she might’ve whacked him with her hair. “Are you sure?”</p><p>“You look cold,” he shrugs, tugging briefly on one of her ringlets as he gets to his feet, slinging his guitar case over his shoulder from where it’s been balanced against the wall behind them.</p><p>She’s just dropping the last of her belongings into her backpack when she’s overwhelmed by the synthetic stench of cherry blossoms and vanilla. Carrie Wilson is poised in front of her desk in a matching pink sweater and miniskirt, the Los Feliz cheer captains’ legacy Bobcats charm glimmering gold on the pendant around her neck.</p><p>She doesn’t even acknowledge Julie first, leaning forward over her desk to greet Luke with the same simpering smile that has sent many a football player to their knees. Luke doesn’t even blink, levelling Carrie with his signature unimpressed stare before turning back to untangling the earbuds that have been pulled haphazardly out of his pocket.</p><p>“I hope you haven’t been begging Nick to get back together with you,” she turns to Julie with a condescending smile, her voice pitched up into that same artificial concern that had coaxed Julie into turning to her for relationship advice, once upon a time. “I thought we agreed, sweetie, you’re too basic to keep his attention.”</p><p>“I’m really not interested in your opinion, Carrie,” Julie sighs tiredly, pulling the leather cuffs of the jacket over her hands. Honestly, all she wants to do right now is go back to bed and curl up under the covers for the next six months. She doesn’t need to be reminded of Nick’s betrayal every ten minutes, and she definitely does not have the energy to deal with Carrie’s constant jabs for the rest of the year.</p><p>Can’t everyone just leave her alone, for fuck’s sake?</p><p>Carrie shakes her head mockingly from side to side. “You know what your problem is?”</p><p>“No, but I bet you’re going to tell me,” Julie returns dryly.</p><p>Carrie barrels over her as if she wasn’t speaking, “You’re too nice, Julie. You let everyone walk all over you because you don’t have the guts to fight back. And honestly, that’s how it should be. You’re always going to be a pushover, and I’m always going to be on top. Oh, don’t worry, I like both,” she adds quickly, flashing another syrupy smile in Luke’s direction, her eyes roving appreciatively over his exposed biceps.</p><p>Julie suppresses a giggle at the way his hands freeze momentarily, the silent, “Are you kidding me?” written plainly across his face. His flicks his eyes towards her with a silly roll of the eyes, and she giggles again.</p><p>Carrie glances suspiciously between the two of them, her gaze landing on Julie’s leather jacket with dawning realization. “Where did you get that?” she demands.</p><p>For once in her life, the perfect thing to say comes to mind just when she needs it. “Starbucks,” Julie shrugs cheekily. There’s a choking noise to her right, and she turns to see Luke doubled over his desk, his shoulders shaking with unrestrained laughter.</p><p>Carrie’s mouth falls open. “That doesn’t even make sense,” she retorts, but for once her comeback falls on deaf ears. Julie’s eyes are trained on Luke, too enthralled by the mirth sparkling in his bright eyes and the wide stretch of his mouth to bother with any more of Carrie’s bullshit.</p><p>The next class is hovering uncertainly just inside the door and Mr. Byman is staring daggers in their direction, so Julie decides that going with her impulses is just going to be the theme of the day. She scoops up her backpack in one hand and Luke’s elbow in the other, tugging him away from Carrie and out the door, his guitar case nearly knocking into a wide-eyed freshman that skitters through the doorway just before they pass through.</p><p>They make it halfway down the hall before Luke can stop laughing, bracing himself against the bank of lockers to catch his breath.</p><p>“We’re going to be late for second period,” she reminds him, but there’s not a single ounce of urgency behind her words.</p><p>“We’ll live,” he returns easily, and the tumbling in her chest has turned into a full on hailstorm beneath her ribs as he shines the full force of his wide grin upon her face.</p><p>She thinks this must be what it feels like to be a sunflower, or a morning glory: things that flourish under the radiance of a single entity, that don’t know what it is to bloom outside of it.</p><p>He reaches out to turn down the collar of his jacket, his cool knuckles brushing feather-light against the nape of her neck. “You really are something, aren’t you, Molina?”</p><p>She might be Cupid’s most convoluted cautionary tale, but she’s never felt more like a winner.</p>
<hr/><p>“If you could get back at anyone in your life, who would it be and how?”</p><p>They’re in the old practice room for lunch again, lounging in the shallow bank of light under the window. It’s overcast today, but the wind outside is strong enough to send the clouds into a state of frenzy, and the beam of light that sifts through their little window cycles from blinding to dim at random intervals.</p><p>Luke has his acoustic laid out over his crossed legs, strumming absentmindedly and filling the comfortable quiet with snippets of whatever song seems to come to mind. Julie is stretched out on her back beside him, her head pillowed on his jacket. She reaches into the Tupperware by her elbow, popping another grape into her mouth as she waits for his answer.</p><p>“My dad,” he says, staring straight ahead into the shadows changing shape on the far wall. “He walked out on me and my mom when I was ten.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she says softly, reaching up to squeeze his knee.</p><p>“I don’t really remember him too much,” he says, but there’s a steady coolness in the forced nonchalance of his tone.</p><p>She doesn’t push the subject. “What would you do?”</p><p>He changes the chord progression into something that sounds suspiciously like Drops to Jupiter. “I’d get really successful and buy my mom whatever she wanted in life, set her up some place nice. And then one day he’d see me on TV or whatever with his stupid new trophy wife and daughter and regret ever leaving us in the first place.”</p><p>She grins, twisting her neck to face him as he hits the chorus. “Looks like you’re halfway there.”</p><p>He falters, staring down at her with something akin to wonder. A strip of pale light breaks through the clouds for a moment, settling delicately on the high curve of his cheekbone before moving on again.</p><p>She holds her breath, afraid to disrupt the moment and not really understanding why.</p><p>He speaks first, tearing his eyes back down to his guitar and resuming with his playing, this time picking out the pattern to a song she doesn’t recognize. “What about you?”</p><p>“Carrie and Nick,” she responds immediately, settling back down into a comfortable position. “Strawberry Frappuccino baths are <em>not</em> fun.”</p><p>“You should rig a bucket over a door like a cartoon villain,” he jokes, reaching over her to snag a grape from her container.</p><p>She snickers. “My best friend Flynn wants me to egg her house.”</p><p>“Have you <em>seen</em> her house? It would take like ten cartons of eggs.”</p><p>“But what a way to put them to good use,” she sighs dreamily.</p><p>He grins. “You should do it.”</p><p>“I should.” And then, “What if I did?”</p><p>The music stops. He peers down at her warily. “You’re not serious.”</p><p>“I’m a hundred percent serious.” She sits up to face him, words tumbling excitedly out of her mouth in rapid succession. “Think about it! We don’t actually have to egg her house. I know exactly where Nick is taking her tomorrow night because they were supposed to be our plans. We could get there early and rig a giant slime bucket or something over their date and totally ruin their night!”</p><p>“We?”</p><p>She rolls her eyes. “You hate Valentine’s day. This is the perfect anti-Valentine’s day activity.”</p><p>She can see the gears whirring in his head. “What’s in it for me?”</p><p>“You get to spend the day with me,” she teases, before adding quickly, “And you get to see the King Jock and Queen Bee take a bath that smells about as fake as their personalities.”</p><p>She can see him holding back a smile again, the corners of his lips twitching minutely as he pretends to think it over.</p><p>“Yeah, okay,” he concedes, laughing widely as she throws his arms around him.</p><p>“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she cheers, squeezing him tightly.</p><p>It’s not until he clears his throat that she comes to her senses, pulling back immediately and flushing violently from head to toe. “Sorry,” she mutters, retracting her arms from his neck.</p><p>“It’s cool,” he coughs.</p><p>It’s astonishingly awkward considering they’ve just agreed to commit several (probably) minor crimes together in the next twenty four hours.</p><p>The bell rings just in time to put them out of their misery.</p>
<hr/><p>“Carrie says she’s better in bed, Strawberry Shortcake! You want a chance to prove her wrong?” She tunes out the catcalls as she passes the football team on the way to the parking lot, weaving through the after-school rush to where Luke is waiting for her. She finds him leaning against the side of his bike with one leg propped up on the footrest. He looks up from his phone as she approaches, breaking out into the lopsided half-grin that she’s grown accustomed to over the last few days.</p><p>She knows that sleeveless rock stars that wear leather jackets and ride motorcycles are an overplayed stereotype, but as she runs her eyes over his biceps, her fingers tucked snugly in the pockets of his leather jacket, she can’t find it in herself to mind.</p><p>“Hey, Zorro,” he teases as she reaches him, reaching out to adjust the lapels of her jacket. “You got the goods?”</p><p>“Why Zorro?” she tries unsuccessfully to ignore the flutter in her belly as his large hands move to rest on her shoulders. Her impromptu hug must’ve broken some unspoken barrier between them, because ever since their awkward fumble yesterday afternoon, casual touching has become a regular part of their unconventional partnership. “You make it sound like we’re doing a drug deal.”</p><p>He shrugs, grabbing his spare helmet and plopping it onto her head, deft fingers working their way under her chin to secure the strap. “The masked bandit, committing crimes for the greater good. Sounds about right to me.”</p><p>She rolls her eyes behind the visor, accepting his hand for support as she swings her leg over the back of the bike. It’s a formidable thing, all steel lines and roaring engine under the leather seats. She’d never been on a motorcycle before yesterday, when Luke caught her on the path to the bus stop and steered her over to his bike before she could blink, but she was more thrilled with the adrenaline rush than she was terrified to fall.</p><p>If <em>now or never</em> is going to be her new motto in life, she isn’t going to half-ass it.</p><p>He swings himself into the seat in front of her, pressing himself to her front as he revs the engine a couple times.</p><p>She’s pretty sure he’s only doing it to show off, but she snickers at the wide-eyed awe of the pack of jocks crowded by the side doors, catcalling every pretty young thing as they scurry past.</p><p>She slings her arms around his waist, leaning forward to make sure he can hear her through the helmet. “Where are we going first?”</p><p>“My buddy Reggie’s meeting us at the park,” he calls back, kicking the bike into gear.</p><p>She prides herself on the fact that she doesn’t shriek this time, soaking in the rush of excitement as he pulls smoothly out of the lot and onto the main road.</p>
<hr/><p>‘His buddy Reggie’ turns out to be none other than Reggie Peters, bassist of Sunset Curve and Flynn’s coincidental bias. If Luke’s whole MO is dark and brooding, Reggie is a golden retriever that sleeps on a bed of rainbows. He’s bright and cheery, scooping Julie up into an enthusiastic hug the moment her feet touch the ground.</p><p>“Julie Molina! It’s so great to finally meet you! I’m a huge fan,” he gushes, bouncing on the balls of his feet and stepping from side to side.</p><p>“You know who I am?” Her eyes flit to Luke, who’s glaring openly at his friend.</p><p>“He saw you perform at the Winter Showcase,” he explains, refusing to meet her eyes.</p><p>“You were amazing! You’ve seriously got the voice of an angel,” Reggie tells her, nodding up and down energetically.</p><p>“I’m really not that good,” she defers, rubbing the back of her neck uncomfortably.</p><p>“Yes, you are,” Luke and Reggie say simultaneously, elbowing each other with sly smiles as if part of some inside joke she’s not privy to.</p><p>Something about the affectionate amusement in Luke’s eyes warms her chest. He’s much more relaxed here, away from the prying eyes of the student body. His face is more open, his emotions playing out across his face instead of shuttering themselves away. It’s kind of nice, not having to decipher what he’s thinking by the subtle twitch of his lips or the odd furrowing of his brow.</p><p>Reggie claps his hands, startling her out of her reverie. “So, kids, want to see what Santa brought you?”</p><p>He leads them over to the open trunk of his car, where several gallons of milk, strawberry purée, and crushed ice are piled in a heap next to a stack of plastic tubs the size of a small crib and a gaudy red and white assortment of helium balloons.</p><p>“Our drummer Alex works at the Starbucks downtown, and he texted us the recipe for the Strawberry Crème Frap this morning,” Luke tells her, grinning from ear to ear. “Reggie didn’t have school—”</p><p>“—I graduated early,” Reggie cuts in proudly.</p><p>“—Yeah, he’s a regular Hawking, so we sent him to the grocery store this morning with all the money Alex made us put in the swear jar.”</p><p>“There were several hundred dollars in that thing,” Reggie admits guiltily. “At least now it’s been put to good use.”</p><p>“This is amazing,” she tells him, squeezing his palm excitedly. “Thank you so much!”</p><p>“It’s honestly my pleasure,” Reggie laughs, “Luke and I have had it out for Danforth-Evans since he knocked my front teeth out in seventh grade.”</p><p>“That was <em>you?”</em> She’s honestly not surprised. Nick has always had a jealous streak, and he broke many a guitar over his knee before he quit the music program entirely for lacrosse in tenth grade.</p><p>“The point is,” Luke interrupts, turning to her with a wicked grin, “We’re getting some payback. What’s the plan, Boss?”</p><p>She points to the gazebo several metres away. “Nick had his older sister set this up earlier this afternoon. They rented out the space for the night, so we won’t have to worry about anyone coming by to mess it up.”</p><p>It’s a gorgeous spot, with fairy lights entwined enchantingly along the posts that form the structure. Long strands of ivy have been strung across the beams that make up the canopy, giving the gazebo an overall Step-Into-Eden effect. Beneath the ivy, a round table adorned with floral centrepieces and a linen tablecloth has been set with covered trays of fresh fruit and whipped cream.</p><p>She pushes away the dull ache that throbs in her sternum, shoving down the angry whispers of <em>that was supposed to be mine</em> before they can break her resolve.</p><p>She swallows down the lump in her throat just as Luke slings his arm reassuringly over her shoulder, his steady presence a welcome anchor at her side.</p><p>“Nick and Carrie are going to show up in an hour,” she says, and this time her voice doesn’t waver. “We set up one of the buckets to balance in the beams, cover it with the ivy, and tie the fishing wire that I brought to the back of her chair. We hide it with some flashy balloons, and when Nick goes to pull out her chair: Bam! Any questions?”</p><p>“I have one,” Reggie raises his hand hesitantly. “Why did Luke ask me to bring a whisk?”</p><p>She just smiles, reaching behind her for her backpack and holding it open for Reggie to look inside.</p><p>“Oh, you are <em>evil</em>,” he chortles, “They’ll never see it coming.”</p>
<hr/><p>The setup turns out to be a bit more complicated than she had originally thought. While they had discussed how to place the bucket without it falling down completely after it tipped at length (Julie wants revenge, not a full blown lawsuit), they never really considered the logistics of balancing a bucket full of slop into position an arm’s length above their heads.</p><p>As a result, Reggie is crouched in the grass over one of the bins, whisking the milk and strawberry purée in as best he can with three dozen raw eggs. Julie is perched precariously on Luke’s shoulders, trying to secure the length of fishing wire through the hole she punctured into the side with a pair of scissors.</p><p>“How’s it going?” Luke’s voice floats upwards, the world tilting to the side for a moment as he shifts his balance. His calloused fingers are wrapped securely around her shins, his leather jacket discarded on the grass for the time being.</p><p>She’s too stressed about falling to her death to be cold right now.</p><p>“I’m trying to figure out how to angle it so it tips properly,” she calls back, steadying herself nervously with a hand tangled in his thick hair.</p><p>She is absolutely not thinking about how his head is facing entirely the wrong way between her thighs right now. <em>Bad thoughts, begone.</em></p><p>“Reggie?”</p><p>“This is a lot of eggs,” Reggie shouts back, “But I’m almost done. Just going to stir in some of the ice and we’re good to go.”</p><p>Julie tightens the double knot, giving it a harsh yank on both ends before tugging experimentally on the thread. The bucket tips onto its side, catching itself in the cross section of two beams before it can tumble to the ground.</p><p>“I got it!” She tugs subconsciously on Luke’s hair in her excitement. A startled groan rumbles low in his shoulders and hums up her spine. “Shit, sorry! Did I hurt you?”</p><p>“I’m good,” he answers hoarsely. “I just thought you were falling, is all. How’s it coming, Reg?”</p><p>“Ready!” he calls back.</p><p>“Reggie, you can start passing it up here,” Julie shouts, letting go of Luke’s hair for a moment to resecure her ponytail. Reggie spins the cap off of their preferred method of slop transportation, a thermal hydro flask the size of Julie’s entire head, and tips the corner of the bucket into its open neck. He runs the bottle over to Luke, who passes it up to Julie, who pours the mixture into the bucket with careful precision.</p><p>“One down, fifty to go.” Luke takes the bottle from her hands and passes it back to Reggie, who sprints back to the slop pile for another round.</p><p>She isn’t sure if she’s imagining the way his fingers linger on her thighs with every pass.</p><p>Half an hour later, their trap is good to go. The bucket, the fishing wire, and the overwhelming scent of strawberry purée have been carefully concealed, Reggie and his sedan have departed in the name of another crazy project (something about a haunted house in a nightclub? Julie was too afraid to ask), and she and Luke are huddled behind a large oak tree a little ways out from the scene of the crime, her phone set to video mode and trained readily on the gazebo.</p><p>“I can’t believe this is actually happening,” he whispers in her ear as Nick’s BMW pulls into the lot. He’s tucked her snugly into his chest behind the oak in an effort to make themselves smaller, his hands snaking their way under the jacket to settle themselves on her waist.</p><p>“Here we go,” she murmurs as Nick and Carrie make their way up the steps to the gazebo, tapping the icon to begin recording and trying in vain to keep her hands from trembling in anticipation. Carrie’s white slip dress is short enough to be considered a shirt, while Nick’s hair has been slicked back with enough wax to rival a new car.</p><p>“I can’t believe I ever thought he was attractive,” she mutters under her breath, and Luke buries his face in her neck to muffle his laughter. The silent shaking of his shoulders jostles the camera just as Nick moves towards the rigged chair, and Julie reaches back to snake her hand quickly around his neck, holding him tightly to her before he can give away their position.</p><p>In years to come, someone will ask Julie to recount her favourite high school memory, and she will think of this: Luke, with his chin propped up against her shoulder, her fingers still tangled in his hair, and the hearty sound of his uncontrolled laughter in her ear as Carrie’s screams echo shrilly through the night.</p>
<hr/><p>“I changed my mind,” he says a few hours later, toying with the foil wrapper of his drive through taco.</p><p>They’re sprawled in the patch of grass beside the skate park, watching Alex and his boyfriend, Willie, try to teach each other half-assed tricks on their boards. Julie’s legs are draped over Luke’s lap, his arm braced against the ground behind her to give her something to lean back on.</p><p>“What about?” she asks, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair away from his face. The twilight that has settled around them is a warm grey, the kind of rare dusk that usually only exists in the wake of a perfect summer afternoon.</p><p>“Valentine’s day is absolutely a commercial holiday meant to trap suckers into buying shit.” He says this like a it’s a new revelation, dropping the wrapper to slide his thumb rhythmically against the bare skin of her knee from where it’s poking out from between the rips in her jeans.</p><p>“You thought that before,” she reminds him, poking his cheek with her pointer finger and shrieking with laughter as he blows a raspberry against her wrist, his warm breath bubbling down the cuff of her new favourite jacket.</p><p><em>“But,”</em> he elongates the vowel, leaning forward to press a kiss to her temple, “Maybe it’s not such a bad thing if you use it as an excuse to spend time with the people you care about.”</p><p>Her fingers catch the neckline of his shirt. She reels him towards her, not even bothering to hide the victorious smirk that spreads across her face. “So you’re saying I was right,” she teases, nudging her nose along the length of his and relishing in the audible sound of his breath catching as he exhales.</p><p>“I’m saying you weren’t entirely wrong.” The arm braced behind her slides around her waist, his fingers splayed out against her side and creeping beneath the hem of her shirt.</p><p>She presses her lips to the curve of his jaw. “Admit it,” she murmurs into his skin, her breath ghosting along the line of his cheek.</p><p>He cups her face with his other hand and seals his mouth over hers, and she thinks that’s a pretty great answer, too.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>That's it! What did you think? Drop me a comment letting me know! They give me serotonin :)</p><p>I feel bad that I had to make Carrie and Nick so awful in this fic (y'all know I love a Carrie Wilson redemption arc), but I needed a pair of villains for the purpose of this story so it had to be done.</p><p>If y'all are here looking for updates to 'Tis the Damn Season, I'm sorry to tell you it's going to be a little while longer. I've been going through some tough spots in my personal life and I want to do right by the Julie in that story, and in order to make her voice authentic I need to be in an emotional space that I am not ready to be in at the moment. Don't worry, there's plenty of other projects I'm working on rn to tide you over! Feel free to subscribe to my dash so you'll get the notifications whenever I post, or come find me on tumblr :)</p><p>See y'all next time!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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